sometimes when I watch that small fellow that is my two (and a bit) year old son, I daydream, and sometimes when I daydream I remember scenes like this: of him standing for the first time, pulling himself up to the lounge we had in our tiny house in Paris - his curly head backed with blue and white quilted triangles, adorned in a stripy cotton, in deep concentration - inspecting fibres or dust particles or something else small, delicate and overlooked by us big people. 

I am overwhelmed by this person who is a part of me - being his mama is so much more than what I do, or don't do, or want to... it's what I see in him, what I see in myself - things remembered, forgotten, lessons learned. 

especially for finding wonder in the ordinary, making our words gentle and our actions true, for getting it right and being mistaken, for begining-again too.